Plain Murder (22 page)

So what account did Willy have to settle with a fluffy white dog? The dog certainly hadn't owed him money.

She took another sip of tea and dragged her desk chair over in front of the board. Willy hated the dog. George had said so himself.

George.
She stared at his name. His was the only name besides Willy's that hadn't been crossed off. She'd added it to the board when she started the list of everyone who had seen him that day. He'd had breakfast with him. He had never seen him again.

Or had he? She rubbed her forehead, thinking back. She cupped the warm mug between her palms and stared.

In a murder involving a husband, the wife was always a primary suspect first, and vice versa. The person closest to the victim was always interviewed first.

She took another sip of tea. Swallowed. She had a dreadful feeling.

Sophia Loren. Sophie. George.
It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. Tears filled her eyes.

As she let her mind go in that direction, more things, more terrible, awful things, fell into place: The pile of cash George had given her for her uncle's bail had been in a rubber band. George said Willy never came home that night, but he hadn't reported him missing until Monday. Ell said she heard Willy's truck that night, but George said Willy never came home.

Rachel's gaze shifted to Buddy's name, crossed off in red marker. George had let Buddy into his place with Willy's keys. Willy's keys, missing from his pocket, missing from his truck . . .

She didn't have all the pieces, and she certainly didn't have them in the right place, but suddenly she knew she was right. Rachel closed her eyes and clutched the warm mug of tea. “How could you, George?” she whispered. “And what does that spoiled little dog have to do with it?”

At four minutes after eight Rachel walked out to the grape arbor with a cup of tea. Because she had no guests arriving until the next afternoon, when she had a family taking five rooms, she'd given Ada and the other women the day off. There would be plenty of time the next morning to get ready for their twelve guests. And twelve would be a relief. If she was going to make a go of Stone Mill House, she needed to fill her rooms. She was worried that too many stood empty too many nights. She'd put all her hopes and energy into this venture and she couldn't bear to think of failing, because the town's new rebirth was still a fledgling dream. If the B&B went down, would other family-owned businesses follow?

Rachel knew she needed to concentrate on the few things that needed to be done today to prepare for so many guests coming in the following day. She tried to. She truly did. But she couldn't. She sat down on the glider, placed her still-too-hot-to-drink mug of tea on a wrought-iron table and held her cell phone in one hand. She stared at the contact name on the screen.
George.

Between six and seven, she'd lain in her bed, debating who she should call first. Evan? The police? Or George? The right thing, the responsible thing to do, was to call law enforcement. She hadn't figured out many of the details, but she was positive that Willy had come home that night, that the two brothers had gone out to the Hostetler farm and only one had come back. She didn't know what George's little bichon had to do with the whole thing, but her gut feeling was that the dog was the linchpin.

So the right thing—the responsible thing—was to call the police, give them the information she had, and let them take it from there. It was the right thing to do for Uncle Aaron. For Willy. But . . . she and George had been friends a long time. He had been her strongest supporter when she returned to Stone Mill. He had been the one to stand up at the first town meeting and tell his neighbors that Rachel's idea of turning Stone Mill into a tourist attraction was a feasible idea. A good one.

She stared at George's name, then glanced out over the property. It was going to be a beautiful day: warm and sunny. The smell of freshly cut grass was in the air, and she heard the steady hum of a mower. It sounded like it was coming from Hulda's.

Rachel heard Thomasina bleating. She'd found a bucket of milk on the back step this morning; one of her brothers had come early. She was sure whoever had been there had fed the goats. She imagined Thomasina was just getting impatient because she and the kids wanted to be let out into their new pasture.

She looked down at the phone again, now fighting tears. She owed George the first phone call. To do less than give him a chance to explain away these awful suspicions would be disloyal. Choosing his home number rather than the bookstore, she hit
Call
before she chickened out or dissolved into a puddle of tears.

The phone rang in her ear. She sniffed. Took a sip of tea. It continued to ring. When she got his voicemail, she hung up. What kind of message could she leave?
Sorry to bother you so early, George, but yours is the only name left on my whiteboard of murder suspects. Did you kill Willy?
She tried George's cell next, but got the
please leave a message
recording there, too. Again, she hung up without leaving a message.

She finished her tea, drinking it down when it was still so hot that it burned her tongue. She barely felt it, then walked barefoot out to the barn. The rich, heady scent of well-cared-for animals comforted her, as it always did. How many times in her life in the outside world had she tried to explain the peace that could be found in a farmyard . . . in the simple life? Usually, people simply laughed, certain that they knew better . . . but they didn't. She'd always found joy in quiet places.

She entered the goat stall; sure enough, there was fresh water, and a few crumbs of sweet-smelling goat chow remained in the feed box. Whoever had come had even cleaned the stall and thrown down fresh wood shavings. She was touched by the effort . . . and realized with a rush of emotion how lucky she was to have so many people who loved and cared for her.

As she made her way to the back wall of the stall, where there was a door that led outside, the two kids pranced around her. Thomasina pushed her velvety nose into Rachel's hand, making little goat sounds. She was probably hoping for a treat.

Rachel smiled as she swung the old iron rail up and opened the door to the small field Fred and his crew had fenced in for her. It was barely half an acre; she'd have to continue to supplement the goats' diet with grain and hay. But this morning she was glad she had the goats. They were friendlier than most barnyard animals. She had grown up hearing about them in the Bible. They were smart and brave. Yes, she decided, she liked them, usually better than she liked dogs.

At nine, Rachel tried George's house again . . . then his cell at nine fifteen. She still didn't leave messages. In the kitchen, she sliced herself a piece of raisin bread that Ada had left in the bread box. While it toasted, she went into the pantry to get a pint of strawberry jam. She took note that there were only three jars left. Fortunately, strawberry season would be here before you knew it. She loved Ada's jam because it wasn't overly sweet. She made it the old-fashioned way, using only strawberries and sugar, no pectin, and cooked it for a long time to thicken it.

Rachel ate her toast and drank another cup of tea while she sat at the laptop in the office. She checked Stone Mill's website and printed off orders placed over the weekend. Then she did a little shopping of her own, on impulse, ordering a new pair of running shoes. This morning, while lying in bed trying to decide what she would say to her dear friend, who might also be a murderer, she'd made the impulsive decision to start running again. She'd been a runner for years, but then, when she'd returned to Stone Mill, she'd been so busy with restoring the B&B and . . . life that she'd just stopped. But this week, she decided, she'd start running again. Just for fun, just for . . . herself.

At five after ten, Rachel again brought up George's contact information on her phone. This time, she called the bookstore.

“Good morning, The George, this is Ell speaking.”

She sounded so cheerful . . . and . . . confident. It was a tone in her voice that Rachel had never heard before.

Rachel groaned inwardly. Ell would be devastated when she found out that George had murdered . . . her . . . her father.

“Hello, may I help you?” Ell said.

“Ell . . . I'm sorry. It's Rachel.”

“Rachel! Oh, gosh, can you believe it? Can you believe
any
of it? George is my uncle. You think I should start calling him Uncle George?”

“Ell—”

“Or do you think that would be weird? Maybe I should just keep calling him George, you know, because nothing has really changed. I mean
everything
has changed, but—”

“Ell, is George there?” Rachel interrupted.

Instantly, Ell picked up on her urgency. “No. Are you okay?”

“Do you know where he is?” Rachel ignored her question. No, she wasn't okay. “I tried his home
and
his cell and he's not picking up.”

“He has that appointment with the lawyer this morning. In Harrisburg. He wasn't planning on coming in today. I'm in charge,” Ell said proudly. “I think he has plans to meet with some of his book cronies this afternoon.”

Rachel exhaled. She really needed to talk to George as soon as possible. Now that she knew what she knew, the secret was burning a hole inside her. Uncle Aaron needed to know that the charges against him would be dropped, that his life would return to normal. Blame needed to be laid at the feet of the guilty. Suddenly, she was so angry and hurt that tears filled her eyes again. How had George let her spend weeks running all over the place, making a fool of herself questioning people, when he'd known all along who had killed his brother? When the body was discovered, why hadn't he turned himself in instead of letting the police take their lead that her uncle had done it? It was true that George had insisted he knew Aaron didn't do it and he'd put up the bail. But he hadn't confessed.

“Rachel?” Ell said.

“Thanks, Ell.” She forced a smile, hoping it would lighten her tone. There was no need to upset the young woman right now. There would be time enough for that later. “I'll catch up with him this afternoon.”

After hanging up with Ell, Rachel called George's cell again. This time, she left a message:
George . . . it's Rachel. I need you to call me when you get this.

Ell hadn't said what time George was meeting with his and Willy's lawyer, so when one o'clock passed and she didn't hear from George, Rachel assumed it was an early afternoon appointment. She kept busy around the house: doing her personal laundry, sorting files, caulking a shower stall. She was relieved everyone had the day off; she didn't think she could have been with other people today. Not carrying this awful secret.

When George didn't call back by three, Rachel thought maybe the appointment had been midafternoon. By five, she was beginning to become uneasy. Had she made a mistake calling George? Did he know she knew? Had he fled the state? The country? How ridiculous was that? Stone Mill was George's whole life . . . but Willy had been his whole life, too.

At five thirty, she called the bookstore. Mindy answered, but then Ell picked up when Rachel asked for her. “Hey,” Rachel said into the phone. She was taking her laundry off the line. It was clouding up. She smelled rain. “You see George today?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“No, but I wasn't expecting to,” Ell said. “Rachel, what's going on with you today? You're acting kind of . . . weird.”

Rachel dropped a wooden clothespin into the calico bag that hung on the line. “Is that Sophie I hear?” She didn't hear the dog. She was just wondering if George had left her at the bookstore. He did that occasionally.

“No dogs here. He took her with him. Said she'd be fine in the car while he was in the lawyer's. It's cool outside today.”

“Ah.” Rachel pulled a towel off the line. “Well . . . if he stops by on his way home, can you ask him to give me a call?”

“Sure. You leave him a message? He's got his cell with him. He called me back a little while ago. Minor glitch with one of our distributors.”

Now Rachel was
really
suspicious. George had taken the dog with him . . . and he was calling Ell back, but not her?

“Don't worry about it. We're probably just missing each other,” she assured Ell. “Thanks.”

Rachel left the laundry basket in the grass and went to the barn. She scooped grain out of a metal trash can. The goats heard her and came running. It was still a little early to put them up, but with the coming storm, it was already getting dark. She gave each goat a scratch behind the ears, and closed and secured their stall.

Outside the barn, she called George.
Again.
“George, I really need you to call me,” she said when the phone beeped.

She took her laundry into the house, then poked around the refrigerator. Realizing she wasn't all that hungry, she left the kitchen without getting anything to eat and wandered from room to room.

Had George skipped town? Was it time to call Evan?

She went into the gift shop and rearranged a table of jams and jellies. Bishop came to the doorway and sat down to supervise. He switched his tail.

“Don't say it,” she said to the cat. “I should have called the police this morning. George isn't going to call me back. He's moved money into a Swiss bank account and is on his way to an undisclosed foreign destination, as we speak.”

Her cell phone rang in her back pocket. She pulled it out and was stunned to see that it was George. “Hello?”

“Rachel. Sorry I didn't get back to you. Busy day. I was in Harrisburg. Saw the lawyer, then—”

“George,” she interrupted softly. “We need to talk.”

He was quiet long enough on the other end of the line for her to say, “George?”

“I'm here.” He sounded so . . . sad. “You know.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she looked out the big window in the gift shop. Branches of the oak trees on the front lawn were swaying, the new leaves turning up. In the distance she heard a very faint rumble of thunder. “I know,” she repeated. She wiped under her eyes. “You have to turn yourself in.”

Again, he was quiet for too long.

“George?”

“I . . . Rachel, I know I don't have the right to ask this, but . . . would you go with me? To the police station?”